The City of Gold
by MadMorriganDeux
Summary: Now with Chapter 6! Anomen Delryn - Watcher-Knight, former consort of a goddess, lost soul - leaves Faerun to escape his legacy and lands in the new world of Maztica, where all hell is (literally) breaking loose. Through the conflict, he comes to terms with himself, his past, Helm, and the position of importance Brindhal has given him.
1. Prologue

**City of Gold**

_Anomen was troubled after his time in Brindhal 's company. He had closely  
>witnessed the dark power inherent in the Bhaal child, and no matter<br>Brindhal's intent, it caused a crisis of faith. His confidence in Helm  
>shaken, Anomen traveled without aim until arriving in the frontiers of<br>Maztica. This was during the revolt of Yamash, an evil cleric that raised a  
>demonic conquering horde. Anomen was drawn into the conflict, helping to<br>organize the besieged Maztican soldiers, but he found he could not  
>effectively train them without speaking of duty and the role a guardian must<br>play; he was teaching the doctrine of Helm, and understanding it more as he  
>did. In the end, his words rang true, and Yamash fell to the Disciples of<br>Anomen, a new Order for a new land._

In a silent room of the temple of Quotal, a pair of weathered and bejeweled hands was deft as they reached into a glass jar and extracted a handful of crackling, yellow petals. These were particularly fine and strong hands which had worked the fields of mayz, and had cradled babies, lifting them to the bright Maztican skies. These were the hands of Yamash, the Nexalan High Priest of Quotal who had done these things, and more. Yamash himself had not ploughed a field in several years and the babies he had cradled were now mostly grown; now his fingers and wrists were covered in gold and jewels, reflecting the trappings of a new life. The High Priest had been born a man of the people, though, and lived to serve.

These hands had seen joy and love, peace and prosperity, but were now engaged in much graver tasks. Yamash took a few seconds to admire the dried flowers, observing their rich yellow color and their intense, soporific scent before he dropped them into a mortar and began to grind. They crackled somewhat and their aroma intensified, filling the air with pungent smells. One did not take the _Tagatia_ flower lightly, though – too much exposure to its richness was known to dull the senses, to put a man to sleep no matter how much pain he was in. _Tagatia_ was a sacred flower, especially valued by Zaltec.

Zaltec. The Man-eater.

Around the temple there were cries— the skies, which had been anything but grey for so long, were finally black and thundering, and the hillside and valley farmers were praying for rain to feed their fields. There was famine in Nexal, and the Gods, though they had taunted the people, had not answered the prayers of the layfolk. They had instead delivered to them crimson skies and the winged beast, the son of Nalcetona, and storms of sand from the South. Yamash and his clergy had asked Qotal the Feathered Serpent to save his people, to come back to them, but the Serpent God too had remained silent and all the priests in Nexal together could not feed thousands with prayers alone.

That left only one thing to get their attention, and it was not something that Yamash relished in the least – the Gods were hungry. This was the reason that Yamash was invoking the power of the _Tagatia_ flower.

_The Gods are hungry_, he reminded himself as he took another handful of petals and began once more to grind. The teachings of generations past came back unbidden, and with them mixed feelings— everyone in Nexal knew about the olden times when the Gods demanded blood, but things were not as barbaric now. At least, they hadn't been until Cordell came, when the hidden Zaltecian priests and others folks began their bloodletting once more.

_The Gods are hungry_. It was like a mantra, and only by repeating the hypnotic phrase could Yamash keep up the tedious work. They were hungry, but he was not to become one of the monstrous Zaltecians – Qotal would see to that.

When the petals had been ground into a fine powder, he poured them into a small bowl and brought them to a large stone slab upon which were laid several other items – a cloth, a chalice, a dagger. The slab itself was a curiosity, built from a stone of such dark red it was almost black and inlaid with a complex network of gilded channels and grooves. They flowed down the slab's sides and onto the floor weaving nasty patterns of pagan visages and unsettling, abstract pictures. Yamash was somewhat glad that the stone was too dark to pick out anything else, and the patterns far too complicated to discern.

Also upon the slab lay Chilmalma, his eldest daughter, lying quietly on her back. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern but she was awake, and her eyes darted across the room. nervously Yamash admired her courage – his own composure would have crumbled long ago, had he been in the same situation.

"Will it hurt, father?" she asked, glancing up at him at his approach.

He looked into his daughter's dark eyes and his heart wrenched. "No, Chil," he lied, bringing a hand up to stroke her cheek. "You'll be fine."

With his other hand be brought the bowl of powder up and blew lightly upon it. The fine, yellow powder billowed in a cloud that settled upon Chilmalma's body in a yellow cascade of perfume, and the girl closed her black eyes for the last time. Her breath slowed, nearly to a stop – the power of the _Tagatia_ had taken hold, and allowed Yamash to perform his bloody task.

Later, as the priest held up his bloodied hands at the statue of Zaltec, the sky thundered a final time and with a flash of lightning, began to pour down its bounty. The joyful cries of the people echoed from the valley below, but to Yamash the world was as silent as a grave.

Qotal, it seemed, had abandoned his people once more, and the patterns in the stone were more horrible than he could ever have imagined.

Author's Note: I know... this is a repost. Unfortunately, I couldn't log into my own account, having deleted the e-mail I registered with, and not remembering my password, so I created this one to add the (possibly?) long-awaited third chapter to this. I write when the passion takes me- I dearly hope it doesn't take another 4 years for the 4th chapter to come out. :/

Anyway - the purpose of the prologue is to set the stage for Yamash here. You'll see much more of him later, promise.


	2. Chapter 1

1369, Eleint 06

It was a late summer's night in Athkatla and the city was sweltering – the very walls of the Docks district seemed to be melting and indeed, some of the older posters and signs had begun to slide down the stone and brick facades, their pastes liquified from the now-faded sun. Unfortunately, Athkatla was even warmer at night – the tall buildings trapped the heat from the day and reflected them back into the air, leaving no respite from the punishing day. One man took advantage of the temperature, however, and walked the thinned crowds from the Temple to the Docks district undisturbed. His gait was slow, the footsteps rhythmically pounding against the packed dirt robes as he hauled a heavy load from one end of town to the other.

From somewhere nearby a shadow skipped out of an alley and considered the laden man that had just walked past. He was a native by the looks of him, and used to carrying heavy things: the torches on the street illuminated a thin film of sweat on him when normally a man with such a load would be drenched from head to toe in this heat. He was dressed plainly, too, in greys and shades of muted red – the colors of the layfolk (the nobility having traditionally preferred more brilliant hues).

The shade slipped between a few more buildings, following behind him as quietly as she dared. A flash of silver and the sigil of a gauntleted hand– _ah! A holy symbol_ – shone in the torchlight as he continued to haul, from the Government district across the bridge. He stopped for a moment in front of a group of vagabonds, men and women and children huddled around the grand arch, and, balancing the laden sack on his shoulders precariously, rummaged around his coinpurse and extracted a handful of gleaming metal coins.

"Me life's book's all in red ink," one of the woman wailed, hungrily eyeing the coins in his hand. "Won't ye spare a Fandar or two?"

"I ain't had a proper meal in three days," another complained. Ere long the whole assembly had joined in, but the man remained inert the scene, standing, with one hand carrying the heavy sack he was hoisting and the other poised to the scatter the coins. His hesitatation was brief, though, and he tossed them with resolve. There were several cries - "A pearl to you!" and "You're right mithral, sirrah!" as they fell down in metallic shower but the man had began to walk away and missed the appreciation of the crowd.

The shadow picked up one of the fallen coins that had scattered far from the rest: an electrum Decime, stamped with the crest of Athkatla on both ends. She eyed it for a moment, then tossed it at the woman who had spoken first.

"Bless yer heart –" the woman began, but the shade put her finger to her lips and smiled in the flickering torchlight. The older woman cocked her head to the side and peered intently at the woman who clung to the darkness.

"Ain't you –" she began once more, but the shadow had fled back into the night as silently as a ghost. The burdened man was waiting for her, several hundred feet away.

"You shouldn't have come, my lady." He stared at the darkness just out of the range of the torches. The flashing torchlight picked out flecks of auburn from his dark hair and beard, and emphasized dark circles underneath his eyes – the signs of many recent sleepless nights.

"Why not?" the woman asked, stepping into full view. On her, light reflected differently: off of obviously-dyed pink hair, ginger brows, and a pale, freckled face. She smiled at him, and it struck the man how little Imoen of Candlekeep had changed since the last time they had spoken. Though her cheeks were less gaunt now and she seemed in better spirits since the Bhaal ordeal, she still wore the same wistful, vaguely sad expression.

Anomen Delryn sighed and shifted the weight of the sack to his other shoulder. "This is a journey I'd prefer to make alone, if it's all the same," he said, a little more tersely than he'd intended. He strode off again, skirting the edge of the Graveyard District into the Slums and Imoen followed, not bothering to hide as she caught up to him.

"With all due respect," she began, leisurely keeping pace, "The last thing you need right now is to be alone."

"Funny that _you _should be one to mention such a thing," he responded.

Imoen, in her usual fashion, let the comment slide over her. "Me?" she asked, slowing her stride. "Me, I'm never alone. Not anymore." She lifted a chain around her neck to produce a small golden charm – the sigil of Brindhal, Goddess of Mercy. Anomen made an inscrutable noise in the back of his throat and increased his pace. The heat and his cargo began to take their toll and when Imoen, walking at a casual pace, caught up to him large beads of sweat were forming on his brow and temples.

"That… was very low of you," he said quietly.

Imoen rolled her eyes. "You can't run away from it forever, Anomen. Sometime, you'll have to face up to it. She's allied with _your_ God, if I recall correctly."

"My lady, I am not running away from anything," he retorted, the exertion of his pace and carrying his possessions beginning to take their toll on his wind. "I haven't had time to think of the matter."

"You haven't wanted to think about it," Imoen argued, pressing her point. "That, as I recall, counts as running away from it."

Anomen pursed his lips – all of the things he really wanted to say would be far from constructive, but he felt the need to finish the conversation. _Running away from it indeed…_

"This discussion is over," he said bluntly. "Good business, Imoen."

Everyone, including Imoen, knew that when Anomen reverted to old Amnish phrases, he was not in his right mind. The cleric shied away from such reminders of his family whenever possible.

"Look, I'm not here to argue," Imoen responded, raising her hands submissively. "It's been a rough year for us all… some of us more so than others," she added, upon seeing his expression. "Hey. I heard you were leaving and wanted to see you off –"

"Who told you I was leaving?" Anomen interrupted, the sweat starting to pour down his face.

"Silly, you're carrying a sack full of armor and clothing, and your room at the Order's been vacated. Anyone with half a brain can infer–"

"That," Anomen began, pausing to catch his breath "did _not_ answer my question. Who told you, Imoen?"

Imoen's face remained impassive, her expression closed. "Heard it through the grapevine, s'all."

"And what grapevine would that be?" the Watcher panted, turning with the bend in the road into the Docks District.

"That grapevine, young Sir Delryn, would be me," the deep voice of Keldorn Firecam boomed from ahead. The old paladin brought up an ungauntleted hand and twirled a keyring around it that glittered in the city lights. "You should know better than to hand your housekeys off to me and expect a quiet departure. Thank you, Imoen."

The pink-haired wizardress smiled in return. Anomen swore in a most unknightly manner just as another voice added, "You should also know better than to expect two nobles from Athkatla and an ex-thief to keep their mouths shut."

_Nalia too? _Anomen thought with alarm. _The Hells be incarnate…how many more are there?_

The paladin and mage stepped forward to join them, and Keldorn hoisted the sack from the younger man's shoulders. As Anomen's body sagged in relief, Nalia, being ever-proper, handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face. She smiled at him and said, "The rest of us are up ahead."

"The rest…?" Anomen wondered aloud.

"How many'd we get?" Imoen asked her, taking Anomen by the crook of the elbow and leading him forward. He followed, too tired and stunned to resist.

"Oh," Nalia said airily, waving her delicately gloved hand dismissively, "A few here and there. See for yourself."

Anomen had been surprised before, but nothing prepared him for the sight that lay in front of the small party. His allies – _all_ of them – stood in the lantern- and torchlight of the docks district smiling, moving forward. Jaheira, Minsc, Aerie, Mazzy, Valygar… Keldorn cleared his throat and set Anomen's things down gently.

"I hope you don't mind," the old paladin smiled, helping Imoen nudge him forward into the crowd, "But we took the liberty of inviting a few old friends. You know, for old time's sake."

_A few drinks and several hours later._

From the deck of the ship, Athkatla looked like a great, sparkling jewel against the black velvet of the Sea of Swords. The turrets of Goldspires glittered in the Temple District's streetlights and the docks were awash with the lanterns of ships hailing from far distant lands, their colorful sails with their stripes and heraldry visible even a long way's out. Above and all around the ship the stars twinkled merrily, casting faint light upon the crew of the _Gilded Summer_. Never in his life had Anomen seen so many lights at once, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see. Athkatla-by-sea had lived up to its reputation: lovely… _illuminating_…yet terrifying at the same time.

The beauty of the moment was lost, however, as the ship rocked with a large breaker and the Watcher stifled a sudden wave of nausea and turned his back to the magnificent sight. Anomen Delryn had always had trouble with his sea-legs- that is, he had none- and his stomach and the alcohol sloshing within it were proving themselves no match to swaying of the ship. A few sailors looked his way and laughed; he ignored them, but turned once again towards the rail and unceremoniously proceeded to empty his stomach of its contents.

"Outta yer element, holy man?" One of the sailors called, from the laughing group. "Ain't earned yer sea legs yet, eh?"

"Eh, bloke's prob'ly never set foot outta Amn a'fore this," another said sagely to the first. Their guffaws grew louder, and Anomen irritably crossed his arms, laid his head upon them, and leaned against the railing to steady himself. The entire boat reeked of fish and dirty water and was almost crusted over with sea salt, and not for the first time that night he wondered why he was there and not back at the Sea's Bounty, sleeping off what was sure to be a Balor of a hangover.

_Helm help me_, he thought irritably as he stared into the inky sea. From somewhere down below decks a sailor had taken up a fiddle and was sawing away, singing an overly sentimental tune that made the other sailors clap and his head hurt. _Why am I here again?_

"_We drink in memory of Brindhal, Goddess of Mercy!" Minsc called out to the assembly, holding up a gigantic tankard and sloshing ale over both Imoen and Aerie._

_Oh yes,_ he responded to his mental query. The reflection of the upper half of his head stared back up at him grimly, echoing his expression. _You're on some damnable ship, fighting seasickness at every wave and heading a very, very long way from home because you don't fit in anymore, Anomen. There's nothing left for you. _

He snorted, disgusted. _A lovely mess you've gotten yourself into, Delryn. Lovely indeed._

Sighing, he looked up at the retreating city once more, looking radiant in the distance. It was a pretty view, but a meaningless one – a trick of the dark. Anomen had had enough of the lights of Athkatla, though, enough of the fresh sea air and smell of fish and nausea. He was ready to be once again below deck, where he at least couldn't _see_ the waters churning around him. For now, he wanted imagine he was still with friends and that, perhaps, all was still as it was before Her ascension.

**Author's notes:** You might be wondering about some of the weird phraseology in here (e.g., "My life's book's all in red ink!"). There's a wonderful book out there online called _**Lands of Intrigue**_ that details the little aspects of Amn and Tethyr. It's 2nd edition and can be found free online from several different sources in .pdf format. I highly recommend giving it a glance, because there's _loads _of information about those regions that you can't find anywhere else. Now, for some translations of the colloquialisms I've included:

"My life's book's all in red ink!" pretty much translates to "I'm really down on my luck!"

A Fandar is the Amnish equivalent to a copper piece, and a Decime to a silver. Even though you wouldn't know it, the different regions have differently minted coins that all have different names.

The Amnish tend to use metals to describe a person's character. The more precious a metal is, the higher the praise. Ergo, "You're right mithral!" is a really big compliment, and pretty much says that you're perfect and beyond reproach.

Lastly, "Good business!" is used as both a greeting and goodbye in the power- and business-driven society of Amn. It can also be used to hastily make one's departure, as Anomen so skillfully demonstrated.


	3. Chapter 2

1369, Marpenoth 17

Anomen and Brindhal, during their time together, had developed a habit of going off from the rest of the group under the pretense of picking flowers. No one had believed them to start with, and after several weeks the excuse was stale and their activities were generally politely ignored. Jaheira had always frowned upon flower picking anyway, politely but firmly reminding her young charges that plants needed their blooms more than people did. Still, every few days or so in the warmer months, Anomen and Brindhal would disappear into the meadows to get some time alone away from the rest of the group. They would be gone for a couple of hours, and return suddenly with pollen in their hair and a small bouquet or two to pass around.

Suldanesselar had been particular good for flowers when they arrived, and the elves had been given advanced warning of their off-time activities, so as not to disturb them. When they arrived in their room they found a good supply of nararoot and cassil sitting on a bedside table – a gift from Jaheira. At the time Anomen had been irritated – the druid's gift was rather forward, and although the herbs were often useful to their off-time activities, the pair certainly did more than the druid's gift implied. Brindhal, however, simply laughed it off.

_"Well, they're ours,"_ she had said, amusedly looking at the bundled wraps of herbs. _"We might as **well** use them."_ So they did, among the halcyon weeks spent in the elven city following the defeat of Irenicus, before setting off to adventures unknown

"_What do you think?" Brindhal asked, as she placed a daisy chain over her short dark hair. The Watcher laughed and looked down at his own hands, which were worrying the stems of some colorful wildflowers – poppies and buttercups which grew wild in the nearby hills._

"_Lovely, my lady," he answered honestly, putting the flowers aside. "Come here." _

"_Mmm, what for?" the paladin asked, smiling at him coyly from the patch of clover she'd been sitting in. Anomen gave her a serious look and her smile subsided a little – she stood up and, trampling the flowers underfoot – kneeled next to him. "You look... Anomen, what's the matter?"_

_Anomen wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. "Nothing," he replied, burying his face into the fabric of her blue tunic. "I'm simply painting a picture."_

_Brindhal laughed, and he could hear it rumble through her stomach. "A picture of what, Sir Knight?"_

"_Of you, of course," Anomen answered, releasing her, and looking up into her eyes. "To be specific, of us."_

"_Oh, now you're being ridiculous." Although the words were harsh, they were spoken gently and there was a trace of a smile on the darker woman's face._

"_I'm but a man, my lady. Allow me my flights of fancy, hm?" _

_Anomen's comments were meant lightly, but a heaviness had fallen over the the two knights and they faced one another uncertainly for a few moments, their dark eyes searching each other's face. It was Brindhal that looked away first, with a slight flush that crept onto her dark cheeks._

"_In a tenday," she murmured, fidgeting with the daisy chain. "We'll, um... we'll leave Suldanesselar at the start of summer."_

"_To where?" he asked quite seriously, watching the yellow petals flutter in the air as they fell from his lover's dark hair onto his tunic. The watcher had been expecting this conversation for some time now - he'd hoped to get her plans out of her sooner, but Brindhal tended to take her time with things. _

"_Maztica. There are rumours of some truly awful things... truly, skies are looking awful," Brindhal said quietly, plucking petals off of his clothing. She held them up into the breeze that seemed to permeate the late spring air and watched as they floated up and away. To Anomen, the young knight next to him seemed goddess-like, backlit by the sun and covered in the late spring's blossoms. Except…_

_Something wasn't right.  
><em>

_Anomen wrinkled his brows in languid confusion. This wasn't how the memory of that conversation happened; this was most definitely off. "What did you say, my love?" he asked, frowning.  
><em>

_Brindhal leaned in close to him, and Anomen could smell the scent of the wild roses and mown hay on her, and feel her cotton tunic against his hands. Although the paladin was not a strikingly beautiful woman, she had an earthy charm that the Helmite found quite appealing, and when she brushed her lips against his cheek and then against the lobe of his ear, he closed his eyes and sighed in content. Off or not, the dream was close enough.  
><em>

"_I said," she murmured provocatively into his ear, "that we're docking, you thrice-damned bilgerat…"_

"– and damn it all...! Helmite!" An angry voice called, rousing him from his sleep. He sat up suddenly as a large, barrel-chested man – the captain of _Gilded Summer_ – burst into his room and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Out with ye, we're dockin' in fifteen minutes an' the clouds ain't going ta wait for ye to get yer arse out of bed!"

"Wha—?" Anomen murmured sleepily, turning over to face the open door. The jolt of his awakening had dulled the lines between reality and his slightly off-kilter dream world, and he was foggy-headed.

"Get out there an' help wit' tha cargo or I'll be tossing ye off tha sides!" the portly man bellowed, slamming the door behind him. Anomen blinked in the darkness of his quarters for a moment before clambering off of his bunk, hastily throwing on clothing, and joining the sailors upstairs.

The captain hadn't lied – the skies above were the color of charcoal and arcing lightning between clouds and sea. Around him the sailors were frantically securing cargo and adjusting the sails, with the captain – stationed above once more – shouting orders. Anomen watched as the old seaman grabbed the ear of a younger man and pushed him towards the others, and for a brief moment, the Helmite contemplated sneaking below decks before the storm broke all around them. Unfortunately, the captain had spotted him and had other ideas.

"Helmite!" he called, motioning him over vigorously. Anomen swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he crossed the deck to stand at the old man's side, dodging the busy sailors. Around him the ship was swaying violently and he inwardly admired the balance of the other men – the priest felt ill every few steps and despite the long journey, a tolerance for seasickness had never quite developed. Standing on a raised portion of the deck, the captain calmly surveyed the scene around the ship and the weather's impending turmoil.

"If the Bitch Queen ain't spared us today, I'll be a sahuagin," he said loudly, followed by, "Look there! Just in the nick of time!"

The weathered man gestured to the starboard side of the ship and Anomen turned his head – there, after almost five tendays of roiling sea and azure skies, was land. Rich, green land, so unlike Amn that Anomen was momentarily taken aback with the intensity of the colors in this part of the world. For a brief moment in time, the entire world consisted of Anomen, the sea, and the verdant land ahead.

The moment hadn't been lost on the captain, either. "Maztica's a beaut, ain't she?" the man sighed rapturously as the first fat drops fell from the sky above. There was a series of thumps as many of the sailors scrambled below. "'S too bad ye won't be seein' Helmsport. That'd be a sight fer ye."

"What's the matter with Helmsport?" Anomen asked, putting a hand up to block the approaching curtain of rain. The landscape was growing nearer now, and he could make out the waving tops of palms and other trees, their leaves shimmering in the late summer rain.

"Plague, if ye can believe that! Me priestie got a Sending tha other day, tellin' us ta stay away!" he responded, gesturing to a man standing near the sails, with the sigil of Shaundakul emblazoned on lightweight robes. "Tha weather's made the sea so bad in those parts we couldn't pass anyway, even if there weren't no plague."

"The weather?" Anomen asked, raising his voice at the approach of the storm. "Where are we going, then?"

"'Ta a nearby place, just a few miles northwesterly of… ah, Hells…"

"North of _where_?" Anomen pressed, missing the captain's words in the clatter of the rain.

All around them the sky opened up, drenching everyone on deck to the bone. The captain, forgetting the conversation, flung a couple of creative curses towards the heavens then turned his attentions towards the sailors below – Anomen had gotten used to his tempestuous moods and short attention span, and shrugged it off as just another quirk of the ship, like the creaking wooden sides and stubborn doors. "Anchors down, lads! We'll wait 'til this is over ta get out the rowboats, aye?" He turned to Anomen, and inclined his head towards the men hauling the anchor – a not-so-subtle hint which the Helmite easily picked up on.

In spite of his nausea, the priest began to sprint away from the captain to help with preparations to drop the anchor. There was a palpable feeling of excitement in the air around him, and it was infectious – he felt invigorated, almost reborn in the gale, and wanted to bottle this feeling and enjoy it later, when the time came – and it would come, he was sure – that he regretted his decision to leave Faerun.

On land stood two figures loitering near a well that were engaged in a most curious and unique conversation. The villagers, seeing a storm coming, avoided them as they sprinted away to escape the wind and rain. These two strangers seemed almost unearthly, though, with their apparent disregard for the elements – one of them was as dry as a bone, while the other was soaked and didn't much seem to care. The first, an older man, was sitting on his haunches and surveying the road before them. The other, a young woman with long, coarse plaits and deep brown eyes, placidly stood next to him and held a large, water-bearing jug which was busily overflowing and sloshing in the rain.

"THY TIMING IS OFF," The old man said in a clipped voice to the dark-eyed woman, who looked both annoyed and worried at the same time. "THOU SAID HE WOULD BE HERE BY THIS TIME. IT SEEMS THOU HAST MISJUDGED."

"I didn't anticipate Umberlee opening the bloody Elemental Plane of Water on us," the woman replied back equally brusquely, sparing a glance at a retreating figure running away from the gale before turning her eyes back to the road. "If we're not careful, one of the villagers will hear us."

"LET THEM TRY," the man murmured, flicking a spot of mud from his knee. "SINCE YE HAVE BROUGHT ME SO FAR AWAY TO WITNESS, THOUGH, I SHALL ASK THEE AGAIN: ARE YE SURE ABOUT THIS?"

"I'm sure about this one, yes," the girl responded, hefting the jug and pointing to where the ship was anchoring in the distance. "Just as I was sure about the last two. You're jealous because he's yours, aren't you?" She smiled a little at her joke, which the old man studiously ignored. The Lord of Watchers was as dour as always, and the rain wasn't helping his mortal joints in the least.

"THAT IS NOT THE ISSUE. I FEEL THAT YE ARE LETTING THINE PERSONAL MATTERS INTERFERE WITH THINE DECISIONS," he answered bluntly. "DELRYN IS A GOOD MAN, AS WERE THE OTHERS. I ASK THEE AGAIN, THOUGH, AS ONCE YE HAVE CHOSEN, YE CANNOT GO BACK. PERHAPS... T'WOULD BE FOR THE BEST IF THOU WERE TO WAIT AWHILE TO SEE HOW HIS FATES PLAY OUT"

"Midnight didn't wait long and I shan't either," was her only response as she poured out some of the rainwater from the jug. The excess water splashed cold against the old man's bare feet, and he grimaced at his arthritis.

The Lord Helm sighed and sprang up, feeling the creak of old human joints and regretting his decision to accompany his young charge. "MIDNIGHT DID NOT HAVE MUCH CHOICE," he pushed. "I WAS HOPING THOU WOULD BE MORE LIKE... DENIER IN THY DECISION MAKING."

His companion laughed, splashing more water from the jug in her arms as she began to walk down the muddy path towards the beach. "Recall: Deneir's original choices had long since died by the time he got around to picking," Brindhal retorted, a smile coming to her dark face. "I'd personally rather be a Midnight than a Denier. Trust me, brother, I know what I'm doing."

"IF YE INSIST," Helm called dubiously, walking quickly to catch up. "I DO NOT NECESSARILY AGREE WITH THY DECISION, BUT IF YE THINK 'TIS FOR THE BEST..."

"Your mortality has made you cantankerous, did you know that?"

"HUSH GIRL. I CANNOT HEAR THEE OVER UMBERLEE'S TANTRUMS," was the God's terse reply to her comment.

Despite her banter, the goddess was nervous – or at least as close to nervous as she had been recent memory. It had been a more than a year since her ascension and she had spent the better part of it waiting for moments such as these. Watching Viconia's hidden-but-secretly-pleased haughtiness and Imoen's merriment at their reunitings, though, were light fare compared to this, a most auspicious of meetings. This was to be her third Chosen, and as the saying always went, _the third time's a charm…_

"REPEAT NOT THE BLASPHEMY OF TYMORANS AND MASKITES, CHILD," Helm chided. Brindhal bit her lip, both in embarrassment and in an effort to keep from laughing.

The two gods walked along in the rain, ignoring the storm breaking all around them.

Elsewhere, inland, the Helmites were safely ensconced in their Fortresses and the Ilmateri passed out hot milk and mashed cornmeal under leaky roofs. On the ship, the sailors and priests heaved and sweated in an attempt to keep the vessel afloat.

"Heave, my boys!" the captain called to his crew from the sails. "Put your backs inta it! Ten lashes to the first one what shirks his duty to the _Summer _and her crew!"

"We watch because Helm bades us Vigilance and Ditifulness," a steely-haired priest called, holding a glass of wine aloft. "Our unblinking eye is a pale imitation of His own…"

"… and bades us to relieve the suffering of the weak, helpless and the hopeless, for we are the salve to the blows of the world and the poultice to ease the illness man inflicts upon his fellow brothers. Whilst these cords bind thy wrists, thou shalt never waver," finished a yellow-haired woman to her clergy, breaking open a loaf and passing the halves to either side.

"It's almost time," Brindhal called to her companion over the wind and the rain. Ahead, for Brindhal, lay her path and Anomen's and the road for the Helmite's salvation. In front of the two Gods was the beach and its shifting sands, and the turbulent ocean spread out as far as the eye could see.


	4. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Chapter 3 has been... a very long time in coming. For that I apologize - writing is one of those things that I have to both be in the mood for, and inspired to do. Still, I hope you enjoy!_

_From **The Song of the Watcher**, date unknown:  
><em>

_Upon the shore he cried for joy, safe at last from Umberlee's Fury_

_With psalms of praise for the Everwatching Eye_

_That dispelled the judgement of the Bitch Queen's jury  
><em>

_A fisherman saw him and asked why he wept_

_The Watcher shook his head and crept _

_Across the shore to the feet of the fishmonger _

_Where he said these words:_

_"__Fine it is, but I have no home, no mission, and no place on these shores._

_Were there signs in the sand to tell me my fate_

_I would rend the earth to ease this weight."_

As Anomen quickly found out, Maztica- in addition to the loveliness of its foliage and the beauty of its seas- was also home to a host of quaint and rather frustrating traditions that were readily apparent to the Helmite shortly after he left the ship. For one, the beaches were nearly utterly deserted in broad daylight. Recalling his native Amn, Anomen remembered the hustle of the docks both day and night throughout the entire tenday. The silence unnerved him, and made him miss the bustle of Athkatla.

For two, when what natives he _could _find were questioned about this, they didn't to take it well.

"A _what_?" Anomen asked in disbelief. The fisherman held up his hands to form a symbol, one which Anomen was obviously supposed to understand yet didn't. He bit his lip to keep from saying anything inappropriate and waited alongside the man while he bent back down and dug some clams out from the disturbed sand. "I'm sorry, I don't think I understood. Today is a what?" he asked again in more civilized tones.

"A… Nemontini day," the fisherman answered once more in highly accented Chondathon, casting his black eyes to the sand. "It is a day of most bad luck, Amnian. You'll find nothing about here tonight."

"Then why are you out fishing?" Anomen pressed, watching him wipe his sandy hands on a pair of ragged trousers.

The fisherman shot a glare at him. "Nemontini or no, I must still feed my family," he retorted, before glancing down at the priests' sigil. The fisherman's dark eyes met his own, and he added, "I do not wish to rely so much on your kind as others of my kin, _Helmite_."

The venom with which he spoke of Helm was obvious but before Anomen could protest, the man turned and began to hustle off, his bucket of clams and other sea life in tow. Anomen could tell he was going to have a very, very bad day before it had even really started. First the storm, and now?

Nemontini. Of all the days the ship could have arrived, it was on a Nemontini day. Whatever that meant.

"Wonderful, and where am I to stay?" Anomen called after the retreating figure, abandoning all decorum and taking a look at the deserted beach road running past him. "Should I climb the palms? Perhaps I should hunker in the sand!"

He opened his mouth to say more, but guilt overcame him, freezing the irritated words in his throat. Far off in the distance, the stern of _Gilded Summer_ was cresting a wave, and it was at that exact moment that Anomen Delryn realized that he was irrevocably, truly stuck.

He decided that he'd better make the best of it. There was driftwood on the beach enough for a fire, and he had plenty of dry food in his possession – he could at least make it for the night. The fisherman's anger towards Helm irked him, though, as he busied himself by making a fire. He replayed the scene over in his head, the undertones in the man's voice magnifying each time.

_Helmite. HELMITE._ The way he'd said it had made it sound like a curse.

_Stranger in a strange land, Delryn. Maztica never heard of Helm before this_, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Brindhal's.

_But it's our job to teach them. We're **helping** them, and they're resentful of it._

_If you were in their place and missionaries of Qotal started running your life, wouldn't you be resentful too?_ Brindhal asked, playing the Devil's Advocate.

_They're natives. They can't be **expected** to know any better._

There was an awkward pause in his thoughts. _You should try to be more understanding, Anomen. _

Suddenly, the Helmite threw his head back and began to laugh mirthlessly at the entire situation. He laughed so hard that he toppled over the sack of his possessions and fell into the wet sand, which made him laugh all the harder. He was suddenly thrilled – in a rather manic sort of fashion – that he was the only one around. If Anomen was going to lose his own sanity, he reasoned, it was probably best no one else be there to see it.

"Oh, my lady," he addressed the swirling sky above him between guffaws, "My lady, you have _finally_ made a lunatic of me after all." He lay until the peals of laughter subsided and he found himself once more wondering what to do next. Above him the clouds thundered faintly as the storm moved inland, but there was no sign of the sun – the skies were shades of obstinate, steel grey.

Anomen spread his arms out into the sand and contemplated the sky and the sea, the mists around him and the turbulence of the great, blue abyss. He fantasized briefly about the tide carrying him off into its depths, which was rather a morbid train of thought that he soon left behind. Suicide was distasteful not to mention an utmost sin… and besides, if he had truly wanted to, he could have easily have designed a similar (though less sanitary) watery demise in Athkatla. Anomen, however, was a Helmite, and a realistic one at that; whether it was to his liking or not, he was better off picking himself up, dusting the sand off, and making his way down to Helmshold to meet his destiny.

Once the storm passed, anyway. And once he'd settled his inner monologue.

"Helm… is here to civilize the wild barrens and bring His order to the New World," Anomen said to no one in particular, repeating the Golden Legion's mantra and taking a deep breath to center himself. He glared up at the clouds, which were busily dumping rain a few miles ahead, and took out his flint and tinder, to start a fire. "Understand, even if you do not _accept_," he continued, emphasizing the last word, "The traditions of others, for they are our brothers in spirit if not in flesh."

_There_, he thought triumphantly, as his lips mechanically continued the Legion's Creed. _I said it. Now if only I actually believed it._

* * *

><p>"<em>The Musings and Madness of Saint Dervinis?" Imoen asked, gingerly picking up the book by the tips of her fingers and craning her head to examine the cover. "Sheesh. You lot sure have some boring literature at your disposal."<em>

_Imoen aspired to become an atheist, and none of the priesthood in their group could much blame her; keeping the faith – any faith – was hard for even Brindhal, who had both Helm AND Bhaal whispering in her ears. Aerie, Anomen, and Brindhal exchanged sidelong glances with one another, then began to chuckle. Imoen cracked a wan smile, but kept it at that._

"_It's not boring, it's history," the paladin retorted to her sister, who quirked an auburn eyebrow. "You like history, Im."_

"_I like history when it isn't told from the point of view of crazy people," the redhead said, idly opening the book halfway and scanning its contents. She made a face._

"_I thought you liked those more," Brindhal rejoined as Anomen supplied, "St. Dervinis was not crazy! He just had… visions."_

"_I have visions too, but most people would call **me** crazy and leave off on writing my thoughts." The mage turned to Anomen for a reply, but everyone was surprised when Aerie, who had remained quiet up until then, plucked the book from Imoen's hands and, closing it, rested it upon her lap where Imoen could no longer get at it. It was, after all, Aerie's book in the first place._

"_We don't think you're crazy. None of us think it. I mean, I'm sure all of us in this room have had 'visions' of one sort or another," Aerie added softly. "I've had them before, you know… even people not affiliated with any sort of clergy –"_

"_**My** visions tell me to rend innocent people from limb-to-limb and bathe in their blood. What do **yours** say?" There was a harsh note in the mage's voice, which they all picked up on. Imoen had most definitely not been the same since her return from Irenicus, and the calmness with which her words were said sent chills down Anomen's spine._

"_It's…I… it's not my place to say." The avariel looked horrified, but Brindhal shrugged off her sister's hostility and put a hand on her shoulder._

"_I've had those too, Im," she said soothingly. "But I've also been blessed to have Helm calming me down and guiding my way since we were in Candlekeep. My visions aren't as… complex as St. Dervinis', mind, but if having Helm show me the way around Bhaal's idiocy is crazy, then I'm nuttier than St. Dervinis will ever be." She shot a expectant glance at Anomen, expecting backup on her point._

_Imoen snickered at the paladin's self-abashment, even while the others still balked somewhat at the mention of Bhaal's name. No one had quite gotten used to hearing it uttered so frankly, or so casually by the Bhaalspawn among them._

_The Watcher cleared his throat. "I haven't yet been blessed to receive Helm's Word, Brindhal," he replied quietly, looking down at his hands._

_Brindhal looked away, disappointed but trying not to show it, and Aerie looked uncomfortable; Imoen just cackled as she stalked off._

* * *

><p>"Who's there?" he asked quickly, sitting up and snapping to attention. Though no one else had come onto the beach proper, there was a shuffling noise from several yards away, the sounds of twigs snapping and leaves being brushed aside. The Watcher tensed out of instinct, bracing himself to stand and, if necessary, fight.<p>

The shuffling noises continued, getting closer and closer until, from a thicket of sea grapes and yellow-green grass, there emerged a figure: a bird, brightly plumed, with the strangest feathers Anomen had ever seen. It squawked, took a couple of fumbling steps, alighted into the air a few inches, then landed in a heap just a few feet of the confused-looking foreigner.

Anomen Delryn had never seen a couatl before, and even though he'd heard stories a'plenty about Maztica's strange, mythical animals, the mess of feathers in front of him wasn't recognizeable as anything especially epic. To him, it looked like an overcolorful peacock. It was, however, the largest and most plumed bird Anomen had ever seen, and despite its ruffled look and the dim light of the stormy day, its feathers practically glowed against the gray sky.

Whatever bird it was, it regarded Anomen with a regal look, and inclined its plumed head at him. In response, the Helmite stood up – although he wasn't sure whether it was out of politeness, or expectation, or even at the sheer surprise at having been acknowledged by a bird. The cautionary tales about the Wild Land of Maztica he'd heard from the captain and crew on the ship were still fresh in his mind: stories of animals that talked to people and Gods that ate hearts. It was irrational, but to Anomen the bird was eyeing him a little too keenly. He reached for his holy symbol without thinking, when something else made itself loudly apparent: he and the bird were not alone.

Except that… when he turned around, there was no one else there which was, if anything, stranger than a self-aware bird.

_Good afternoon, Watcher Anomen,_ a familiar voice greeted in his head, interrupting his thoughts. It was the voice of a woman, dark-skinned with shorn hair and mournful black eyes that he once knew very, very well. Anomen decided to ignore this voice and shot a glance at the bird, who ruffled its feathers at him.

_WATCHER KNIGHT ANOMEN,_ another voice chimed in gruffly. The second one he did not recognize, but it resonated within him in a way that Brindhal's voice hadn't, reaching deep within his mind and heart. Anomen was sure, at that moment, that he had indeed gone mad. The stern, male voice inside his head chuckled, in as much of a fashion as an incorporeal voice booming through one's skull was capable of doing so.

The bird, for its part, was still staring at the bewildered Watcher expectantly. He turned once more to face it, and sighed.

"Tell me that it wasn't you who was speaking."

The bird blinked at him, and both voices chuckled softly.

_HAVE YE NEVER HEARD OF DIVINE INTERCEDENCE BEFORE, WATCHER DELRYN? _

"Who - what is going_ on_?" Anomen said, growing agitated at the voices in his mind. "If this is the cosmos' idea of a joke, it is _not_ funny."

Suddenly, the bird in front of him dissolved to reveal a shining pillar of light as bright as the midday sun. Immediately, his hands flew up to shield his eyes, and though what he saw was hazy and green-tinged, there was a man buried somewhere within the brightness, a man with an indistinct yet unmistakably anthropomorphic form.

The figure held up an arm, upon which shone a blazingly white eye outlined in blue flames.

_DO YE UNDERSTAND NOW?_ Helm asked.

Anomen did indeed. "Helm save me," the Watcher breathed, losing his feet and stumbling backwards into the sand once more. The God's voice filled the space around him, speaking in numerous tongues and tones, none of which he could fully understand – and as the Helmite's world began to close in, he keenly remembered Imoen's words: _I have visions too, but most folk would just call me crazy._

He would have liked to think he was crazy at that moment. Instead, he felt his palms burning where he had grasped his holy symbol before. Helm spoke,

_I AM THE WATCHER OF MAN, ANOMEN._

_I AM THE ALL-SEEING EYE THAT LIGHTS THE PATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS -_

_DO YOU WISH TO SEE THE TRUTH AS WELL, OR BLIND THYSELF TO THE WORLD?_

"_Seven mounting layers of Celestia…_" Anomen exclaimed in disbelief as he backed away further through damp earth, his eyes never leaving radiant figure in front of him. Next to Helm he could just barely make out another vaguely humanoid figure, less bright than its counterpart but luminous and obviously female. Despite being eclipsed by Helm's brilliance, she was too bright to look at without shielding his eyes.

_Anomen - _ she began hesitantly, without the fanfare that Helm had opened with.

_Anomen_. She had called him by his given name.

It _was_ her, he realized. After so long, Brindhal had come back to him like he knew she would, and Anomen stopped fighting his way through the sand to escape. Her brightness subsided and she took a more corporeal form, silhouetted by Helm's brilliance but revealing more of the goddess' earthly features – her broad face, full lips, and wide dark eyes. His heart swelled for a moment with joy, nearly bursting before the two years of loneliness and anger Anomen had endured overtook him. Quickly, mercilessly, he pushed his happiness aside.

"You. You—" Anomen began, squinting against the brightness to more clearly make her out. For all he wanted to say, the Watcher was at a loss for words. "Why are you here, Brindhal?"

_I'm sorry, _the goddess simply answered, looking both regal and apologetic at the same time. _I'm sorry, Anomen, that I couldn't have come to you sooner, but—_

His next words managed to take him by surprise. "It is _not_ that you couldn't. You _wouldn't_." Anomen corrected her, his face flushing angrily. The goddess flickered. "All those times I prayed for you, I begged you – yes, I_ begged_ you, Brindhal, to answer my prayers, or to send me some word—"

_I'm sorry,_ Brindhal repeated, her tone firm but her voice quieter. _There are things afoot the likes of which you can't even imagine. Please, listen, for there isn't much time._

Anomen's cheeks burned with anger. "You can't just… just reappear after two years and expect me to follow at your beck and call, Brindhal Bin'Khalise!" The knight braced himself to stand once more, but found his energy lacking – he remained on the sand and glared daggers at the ethereal woman.

_DELRYN, _Helm interjected, raising his hand to quiet the angry Watcher.

Helm had spoken, and as his priest, Anomen was bid to do as he was told. "What do you want, then?" The knight asked wearily, turning his attention once more to the woman in front of him.

_I need you, Anomen,_ Brindhal responded after a very long pause. _I have contacted others, but I need you to act in my stead and carry out an act of faith._

"My faith in you is dead," Anomen said bluntly, crossing his arms. "I refuse."

_THY FAITH IS STRONGER THAN YE THINK,_ Helm interjected calmly just as Brindhal interrupted, _Do you need proof?_

_"_Proof? You want to give me proof?" Anomen glared at the goddess angrily. "Then show me your face."

There was a moment of profound silence on the beach, where Anomen stared down Brindhal, and Helm presided silently. _My… face,_ the goddess repeated slowly, processing the request.

"Aye," Anomen affirmed quietly. "Show me your face."

Deep inside, he was aware that he was making demands of a deity. At that moment, however, he didn't care, even if Helm himself was watching. The silhouette of Brindhal looked at the shining form of her sponsor, as if asking for permission; Helm gave his assent with a single, silent nod of his head, and Anomen's world was engulfed in brightness once again in the span of nearly as many minutes. He was no longer on wet sand under pale grey skies – he was sprawled on cold, white marble under an unforgiving cerulean sky, bright as noon but with no sun to light it. Brindhal herself sat on a throne of white marble, looking as Anomen had never seen her in life: she was dressed in blue and gold, and had long black plaits hanging down her shoulders. Her earthly beauty, present in her chocolate-colored skin and black eyes, had been replaced with something far more lovely, yet utterly terrifying – her dark skin had been replaced with matte black, absorbing the light all around, and her eyes shone like stars.

Anomen shrunk back instinctively, suddenly keenly aware of his own shortcomings.

_My face_, the goddess repeated, the traces of a smile tugging at her lips even though her voice was serious.

"… aye." Slowly, carefully, the Watcher pulled himself up from the cold ground and got to his feet, approaching the throne with reticence. He wasn't sure what to say, or what to ask; the Goddess continued to gaze unblinkingly at him with her luminescent eyes. After several long moments of silence, she held out a hand to him.

_Anomen, I am not here to judge you. _He had reached the base of her throne, and looked up at her with a mix of defiance and reverence on his face. _But I sense… you are quite angry with me, aren't you?_

"Yes," the knight replied quickly, followed by, "Or… no. I am hurt by you. Was."

_I only did what was required of me. You know the code of knighthood - tell me you wouldn't have done the same._

"I wouldn't have." He wasn't sure whether he was telling the truth or not, but Brindhal continued to gaze at him searchingly from her throne.

After a pause, she shook her head – her plaits swayed a little with the movement. _No. No, I don't think so. But that is a question about a matter that is now irrelevant."_ Then, suddenly, _Tell me, Anomen… why have you come to Maztica? What is here that you cannot find on Faerun?_

"I cannot find the words to describe it." Anomen looked down at his reflection in the white marble below, and missed the expression that passed over the goddess' face.

_Try. _Her tone was gentle.

The Watcher put his mind to work, thinking of the words he needed to describe just why he was on such a faraway beach, miserable and slightly mad. "When… you… ascended," he began, "Everything was such a… blur. You were there one moment, flesh and blood, and the next you had vanished, had… had taken your place among the Gods. You were no longer alive, Brindhal. I loved… someone who was not alive, nor ever would be again.

"I lost the will to go on. Imoen and Aerie and Minsc… they tried to help, but they eventually moved forward… hells, everyone in the world has moved forward without you, but you were my guide, my polestar." He licked his lips, then looked up into the face of the Goddess. "Going to Maztica offered a new start, something untouched by the memories of my time with you. I wouldn't be the Delryn boy with the drunkard father and murdered sister, or that pathetic fool who'd loved and lost the Bhaalspawn."

Brindhal considered his words – she leaned forward and steepled her fingers. _By coming here, do you think that you'll accomplish what you've come to seek?_

Anomen's calm broke, and his voice cracked as he said – almost shouted, "I will ALWAYS love you, Brindhal, always, no matter where I am. I can't escape you – even now. The only difference is that no one in Maztica knows yet."

The silence between them stretched out for what seemed like an eternity, and when the goddess spoke again, it was in a softer, more contemplative voice.

… _Anomen, if I offered to leave, and take away your memories of me – good and bad – in exchange for something, would you take that offer?_

It took Anomen a long time, but finally, he said, "It depends on the favor."

_Do you trust me?_

His pride wanted him to say no, wanted him to spit on the flawless white marble and renounce every claim to him that Brindhal had ever possessed. She was the Goddess of Mercy, though… and outside of the one time she had ever broken a promise to him – a promise that benefited the entirety of Faerun, INCLUDING Anomen – Brin Dhal bin Khalise's word was her bond. Of course he trusted her.

Her ebony hand reached out to him, fingers lightly brushing against his forehead in a gentle caress. A soft light suffused him – instantly, some of the heaviness in his heart lifted, but it was quickly replaced by something less tangible.

There was a strange, large, doe eyed-woman with ebony skin staring at him. There was a new strength about him, too, and an inner peace that he was unaccustomed to feeling. He felt deeply connected to the woman in front of him, but he'd never seen her before in his life. Still… there was something oddly familiar in her sad gaze, and she gifted him with a mournful smile.

_Be at peace, Anomen Delryn,_ she said, before his world spun around and went black.

* * *

><p>"Easy now, take it easy - you mustn't thrash around so."<p>

"Uuuuhn," Anomen groaned, as the fuzziness in his head subsided and he regained consciousness. He rolled over, following the voice, and found himself lying on rough sheets with bits of straw poking out here and there, including through the fabric of his tunic. There was light behind his closed eyes, and the Watcher tested the illumination by opening them a sliver – although there were definitely stars behind them, it was too bright yet to be nighttime.

"Watcher?" the voice asked again.

"Are you a spirit, a vision, or a bird?" Anomen groaned, blinking a few times before finally fully opening his eyes.

He was in a hut, with mud walls and a thatched roof. The furniture was rough, and this domicile was definitely _not_ built for more than one. There was also a window through which the mists of the stormy day were drifting, a small but serviceable corner which apparently served as a kitchen of sorts, and a rather large assortment of vials and decanters. The structure gave Anomen the distinct overall impression of "damp". In fact "dank" would have been the better word, though the Watcher was too polite to insult his host.

"You'll find neither of the first two here, brother," the voice said soothingly, though now, Anomen noticed that the speaker – like his house – also sounded rough around the edges. "Although," he added thoughtfully, "There are chickens in the back, but I doubt that's what you're asking after. How do you feel?"

Next to him, in a chair made of rough-hewn pale wood, sat his keeper. The man leaned heavily against the back of the chair. Were he to stand, Anomen guessed, they'd be roughly the same height, though he was not nearly so broad as the Helmite, and his features were rough and irregular. Upon closer inspection, however, the traces of more unusual ancestry were evident – one with sallowed skin, a snubbed nose and a prominent jaw which jutted out from behind neatly combed black hair.

Orcish. Anomen raised his eyebrows.

The most outstanding feature of the orcish man, though, was the blindfold on his face. Anomen was sure that underneath lay recessed, beady eyes, but knew better than to anger a man with orc blood – even a blind one. His host stared past the Watcher, as if peering at something on the wall. Anomen followed his gaze and saw nothing.

"I'm… I feel… fine," he responded, rubbing his eyes, though neither the green nor the stars had fully left. He blinked a few times and, assured that all was well, looked out the window.

Outside, a woman stood a short distance away with her back turned to the both of them. She was petite and milk white compared to the workers and laborers busily engaged around her, and had bound ash-brown hair. She was also busily engaged in pumping water from a well, and stopped for a moment to wipe her brow. His companion stared straight ahead.

"What day is it?" Anomen asked his host.

"I do not know," the orc replied.

"Oh."

"What are you watching?" asked the man, turning to face the watcher.

"Nothing," Anomen lied, without taking his eyes off of the woman. She was wearing tightly-bound crimson arm ribbons, the ends of which were currently dangling partway down the well—one of them, however, remained dry and had caught the wind and rose above her like a scarlet pennant.


	5. Chapter 4

They came into Cor Delryn's store twice a month, clean, clad in rags and perilously thin. Moirala was always polite if somewhat distant to the group – that was her nature in general - but Cor scoffed at them and the coins they'd scraped together to afford their meager rations. The first time Moira had been allowed to see the Ilmateri, she was five. The little girl stared at them with wonder from the back of the store, her dark brown eyes following their every move, little ears picking of the whispers of their conversation. They spoke to her father respectfully, their mother cordially, and gave the children honest, open smiles.

_Ano, _Moira had asked once they'd left. He was taking inventory in the back, assisting their father while their mother ran the store proper. The boy looked up from his clipboard questioningly, taking care not to attract Cor's attention.

_Moira? _

_The men and woman with the red armbands – who __**are**__ they?_

_Beggars and layabouts,_ Cor said, before Anomen could answer. _ Rather, thieves who prey upon the sympathies of the hardworking to __**support**__ beggars and layabouts. Tell her, Anomen._

The boy looked between his sister and his father, unsure of how to proceed. Cor raised his eyebrows, as if to say, "Come on boy…"

_They're Ilmateri_, he said, settling upon neutral ground.

_Il-mah-taree,_ Moira tried, sounding the word out. Her inflection was a little off, which made her frown somewhat. _Is Ill-mah-tar like Helm?_

Cor snorted, but Anomen shook his head. _Il-may-tar_, he guided her. _And no, Moira. I mean, yes. And no. He's a god. He's just… a… very different sort of God than Helm. Helm watches the righteous; Ilmater is the god of people who suffer._

_Understatement of the year, boy,_ said Cor.

Moira processed all of this. _People who suffer aren't righteous?_

_They wouldn't be suffering if they were, girl, _was their father's response. _Leave your brother alone and mind your business, now. This is a shop, not a church._

Morach, the orc – the _half-orc_, Anomen had to keep correcting himself – must have been quite lonely, or perhaps just very dedicated; it was hard to tell, and difficult to escape the blind man's careful vigil (an ironic thought, and yet another the Watcher did not voice aloud). The Helmite was told explicitly that he wasn't allowed to leave, not just yet. After his experience on the beach, he didn't bother fighting it. Though he didn't like the thought of it, Anomen wasn't entirely sure that the exchange between him and the gods had happened after all, and if he was indeed crazy, perhaps keeping him under a watchful eye was best for now.

So, he dutifully allowed himself to be tended after for a few days. He'd had quite a fall against some of the rocks on the shore, Morach told him, and hit his head quite hard. Anomen had gleaned that some of the natives had come across him sprawled out on the beach with nothing but the clothes on his back, and his holy symbol around his neck – not knowing what else to do, they'd brought him to the mud hut, and the small village near the beach. He also learned that that had apparently been four days ago.

"But just where is this place? And who are you that you take in strangers this way?" Anomen asked, as soon as Morach had relayed this. Though he was blindfolded, he gave what Anomen would later swear was a sidelong look.

"We are the Ilmateri," Morach responded calmly and slowly, as if speaking to a small child. "Surely you had guessed by now. You're from Amn, from the sounds of you – surely you know who Ilmater is. The maimed god? Staunch ally of the one you worship…?"

It took some doing for Anomen not to roll his eyes - not that it mattered. "I am familiar with him, yes, but what are his followers doing here? The Golden Horde is led by Helm."

A smile touched Morach's face, bringing out the small tusks jutting out of his lower jaw. "True enough. Ilmater has his own interests in the New World, though. We see after the human side of Amn's colonization."

"What is THAT supposed to mean?" Finally, a bit of the Old Anomen was seeping through.

The half orc took the question as an opportunity to check the bandage covering Anomen's forehead. The Watcher suspected the pause was also to give him time to respond appropriately. Finally, he said, "Watcher Delryn, you are new to Maztica, and new to the way things are done here. I mean you and yours no offense when I say that the Amnish who have come here don't usually concern themselves with the goings on of the lay folk."

Anomen was silent for a long moment. "That's an unfair statement to make, I should think. The priests of Helm have always kept a close vigil on their people. We do not brook mistreatment of any man."

"An unfair statement, perhaps, but I challenge you to prove me wrong. Hand me that bottle." He shook out and dabbed some foul-smelling stuff upon the Watcher's forehead and wrapped it back up. Anomen was silently impressed at the deftness at which he treated him, without needing to see or feel where the wounds were, or where his medications were. Out loud, however, he still said nothing, smarting from the earlier statement.

"You're upset. That's understandable," Morach continued, interpreting his silence. "I'm sorry for any distress I might've caused with my words; you're supposed to be recovering, not listening to me blather." A pause, then, "I'll see what I can do to patch you up and get you to Helmshold sooner rather than later. It's just… it's been nice having company that speaks Chondathan. We're a small group, us Ilmateri, diverse, and often so busy that we rarely see one another more than once a fortnight."

"I, er… I understand, I think. It's been awhile since I last saw any of my brethren as well." Something about the thought tugged at him oddly. It _was_ a true statement – he hadn't been back to the Radiant Heart building in months, and he'd left several friends behind in Athkatla whom he sorely missed. Still, something seemed off. His brain understood something that the rest of him was still catching up on.

"Is that so...?" Morach began to put bottles away, and turned away from his patient. "Watcher Delryn, why are _you_ here?"

In his nest of blankets, Anomen shook his head. "I could repeat the Golden Mantra, but something tells me that you have heard it many times before." A joke – the Watcher's attempt at an olive branch. "Truly, I lack the words that would make it understandable to anyone but a select few. The mainland is rich, but my family is not. My former companions are just shy of being actual brigands and have their own pursuits they are working on. Ah, that was not good of me to say."

"So…you… are seeking to make a difference in the world? Or raise your standing within the Church?" Morach politically did not mention the brigand remark.

He gazed out the window. "Perhaps both? The former, certainly, although if the latter occurred…"

"Ah, well – I hope you find what you're looking for, Watcher. Maztica is –"

Morach's door opened and shut quietly, and both doctor and patient turned towards the visitor. "Morach. Sir Knight. I hope I'm not interrupting anything…?"

It was the woman with red armbands, followed closely by an elf – also in armbands – who was keeping his distance from the makeshift hospital scene. The pale-haired man looked dour and uncomfortable. "Word gets out quickly that we have visitors, as I'm sure Morach told you," she said.

"He did indeed," agreed Anomen. "Ah – I am Sir Anomen Delryn of the Most Noble Order of the Radiant Heart at your service, my lady. Well… I would be at your service, but I am… currently incapacitated."

Morach laughed, the woman smiled, and the elf looked on coolly. "Of course, Sir Delryn, Brother Morach is very thorough in his work. Lest we also forget our manners, I am Katara Mersk, the… head priestess of sorts, in this place – this is Jaereth Mersk, my husband, of the Order of the Golden Cup. Welcome you to our little village, for as long as you're here."

"Shouldn't be long now. A few more days at most," the half-orc chimed in.

The Lady was peering at the Helmite most intently. "Excellent, brother. We heard you had quite the accident on the beach and wanted to check in. We're… breaking bread tonight in the village proper- you are welcome to join us, but our ceremonies are simple and almost certainly not befitting of one of Helm's anointed knights." Unlike with Morach or the Mazticans, there wasn't the air of passive-aggressiveness about Helm – just a statement of fact. "Still… if your doctor allows, consider it. Jaereth?" She looked to the elf, who was still studiously avoiding eye contact. At that, however, he dragged his pale eyes to Anomen's face.

"Watcher Cato has sent word that someone will be here to retrieve you when we've determined you're fit to travel," he said in a deep voice, one that was exclusively business. "Until then… heal well, sir Knight."

Clearly, theirs was not a social call; they left soon afterwards, although the elf did linger with Morach for several moments outside of the hut in a hushed conversation that Anomen could not make out. For his own part, Morach came back inside in good spirits.

"Odd pair, those two?" Anomen remarked.

"You haven't any idea," his host responded.


	6. Chapter 5

In the Temple of Qotal, Yamash was thinking.

_You broke your family for nothing_. The thought was accusatory, but Yamash couldn't deny its truth. _Let's count, shall we? First, there was Chimalma._

When his daughter's heart was taken, the rains came down morning and midday. The crops grew greener over the months, the people less hungry, the threatening hum of the populace died down to mere murmurs. Then the rain was only in the morning, but the crops still grew… and then there was no rain at all. Yamash saw all of this from his towers in the temple and it was only a matter of a few dry days until the people thronged the temple again, asking for more miracles. In a matter of six months, he'd gone from savior to charlatan.

He poured himself a drink – it was strong and cloying, fermented with nectar and tempered with honey. It burnt going down and the sweetness gave way to a sour taste in his mouth that complemented the one already there.

_After Chilmalma_, he recounted,_ came Tlaloc_. His eldest son. Tlaloc, too, had taken the sacrifice with dignity and honor, like his sister. Again – rain, green, prosperity, heroism… and then famine after a few short months.

_What_, Yamash asked himself when he'd reached his third drink, _was I doing wrong?_

He'd given up blood for the hungry ones, just like the old ways of Zaltec called for. The blood of his own, for that matter – in the old texts and legends, one heart had been more than enough to satisfy Zaltec's hunger for months, and a noble heart meant more still. The texts – rather, the fragments of the texts – had told him that. He had pored over them for days while the crowds thronged outside, looking for any information or clue the faded scraps had to offer, but the cloths said nothing. For now, it looked like only another heart would do, and he was fast running out of children to lend to the cause.

_Perhaps_… he thought, his inner monologue pensive as he put his words together. _Perhaps… there's more to this than you know. More to this than was written._

"You have all there is! What more could there be?!"

Yamash stood up and whirled upon the voice, his robes flying and eyes burning, but there was no one there – he was talking to himself. He laughed weakly and took a deep breath to compose himself, shaken by the experience. He'd never spoken to himself before. Of course, he _was _drunk. And he'd never sacrificed his own children until a few months ago either. Once calm, he looked into the amber depths of his cup and resumed his train of thought.

_More than was written_. Maybe. It was hard to tell. _The answer isn't in the texts. Seek the words of that which is long buried…_

"I do not know what that means…" he said aloud, in a tone more whiny than he'd intended. With shaking hands, he poured a fourth glass. The golden liquid looked up at him, and his reflection spoke.

_You do. Think, Yamash. Think to what the priests that came before you told you. About Qotal. About Zaltec. About the jungle._

"The jungle?"

_The jungle. It's in the jungle you'll find your answers._

The thought lingered there in silence for a very long time. Then, abruptly – in a flurry of macaw feathers and dust – Yamash fled the building.

* * *

><p>Back in Athkatla's Temple District, Helm was honored with a great building of stone and marble, with gilt trim surrounding his everwatching eye. The priests in their finery carried censers made of precious metals, and art from the best painters and sculptors in the Realms adorned the walls and corridors. Anomen had personally seen to one of those sculptures, helping to secure a truly disgusting amount of illithium for the damned thing… but even with the newest, hideous piece of art, the air of the place was pure richness. Athkatla's Temple of Ilmater, on the other hand, was a rickety shack atop the Copper Coronet. In Payit, the temple was a squat mud building surrounded by thorny shrubs, upon which rough lanterns hung. Not <em>too<em> different from home, Anomen thought, though he kept his opinion to himself.

"'Bread-breaking'," he said instead, flanked by Morach on one side and townsfolk on the other. The half-orc managed to tower over him when they both stood, and he looked down at the Watcher's voice, even though he was blindfolded. "I somehow doubt this is as straightforward a process as the name implies."

The distance between the half-orc's hut and the temple was short, but they'd been walking slowly for Anomen's sake. Morach chuckled at his companion. "It's more complex, yes, but part of a… a culture of sorts we've created here. If that makes sense."

"A tradition?" Anomen offered, sidestepping a child weaving through the crowd. My, but there were a lot of people out this evening, and all of them seemed to be going in their direction. They paid the Helmite a rather wide berth for the most part, which suited him just fine.

"Yes! Tradition. That's a far better word. It's a tradition we've made with the townsfolk. Our first sign of fellowship was to break bread with the people of Ulatos, and we've repeated it every tenday since we came here."

The Helmite thought about that, scratching his chin. Off-handedly, he noticed his beard had grown, but pushed the thought out of his head – that sort of nonsense could be dealt with later. "The support of these folk must be integral for you all," he remarked. "Especially if, as you said, you represent the 'human' side of the Legion's affairs." He couldn't resist a barb from their earlier conversation.

"Now who isn't being fair?" The two priests reached an accord over the last day and, though the pair was perhaps not exactly "friends", neither was above some playful banter. "It's true, though; we priests all live to serve. Without people, we'd all just be little bands of wishful martyrs."

They reached the temple. Outside, a halfling man with red armbands was ringing a bell, and the pair jostled through the crowds, ducking into the building mere moments before a group of clergy in grey and red robes closed the doors behind them. The small temple was packed from one end to the other, save for the space at the front where Sister Mersk was standing, her back to the assembly. Her hair was still in the messy braid she'd worn earlier, but she now wore a red skullcap and had put on robes that looked out of place for such a humble setting and for a woman who was clearly used to hard work. Dove grey and immaculate, with red embroidery and other tracings, it was a fine garment that probably originated in a much grander place, and seemed at odds to the rough clothes of most of the people that had gathered.

Once more, the halfling's bells rang, and the assembly went from a loud hum to near silence; Katara briefly finished her incantation, then turned and faced the crowd. For a moment, she caught Anomen's eye and offered a slight nod before softly ordering, "Let us pray." The Helmite bowed his head in respect, following the lead of the congregation, but remained quiet.

"O Crying God – we thank you for your guidance this Tenday past, and thank you for making it such that we can all be gathered here today. You have steered us through the first great storm of the season; our crops have been spared and we have suffered little. To show our thanks, today we break the bread from wheat we've sown, reaped, dried, and ground, in the name of the Broken One." The hum of the building increased as people added their own words and repeated what she'd had to say. Katara chuckled softly, causing Anomen to look up and see that she was looking at him. Inquisitively, he cocked his head to the side, but she shook hers in response.

"Blessings," she continued, this time addressing the crowd more naturally, as if she was speaking to a friend rather than a large assembly of people, "are strange things, difficult things to interpret. We have all found ourselves on paths we didn't expect, on courses that, at first blush, seem contrary to what we need, or what we may want."

Helm knew that was definitely the case for him.

"As we eat tonight, take a moment to think of blessings, both overt and in disguise. An enemy who turned out to be your staunchest friend, or finding yourself 'lost' when truly, you were right all along." She raised her hand and several members of the audience, Morach included, stood and made their way to the front of the room. "As we eat tonight, think of the paths you have tread, and where they have led you, and rejoice – for you all are exactly where you should be."

The loaves began to circulate around the room, and someone passed one to Anomen. He was reluctant at first, but ultimately accepted it, turning it around in his hands a few times while the sermon went on. He'd grown up fairly devout and that hadn't changed much as he'd aged, at least until fairly recently; this was not the type of service he was used to.

Katara licked her lips, wetting them before the continuing. "I am not in the habit of proselytizing, as most of you know. The Broken God's house is open to all, regardless of origin or creed, and shall remain so as long as our temple is standing; it takes a unique soul to wish to join our ranks, and far more so if one seeks to devote themselves to the clergy. Still…" She wrung her hands together as there were some chuckles from her audience. "Ilmater is a God of those who suffer. We all know someone who is suffering in some way, shape, or form. Brother Morach lost his sight when he was led astray by an idol's false promises three years ago… Sister Cauly's –" she gestured to a sullen-looking Halfling in frayed grey robes "— husband and brother died when they were attacked by bandits. If you have lived in this world, you have felt death or grief; you've suffered, and it's a sobering thought to know that life will_ never _stopbeingpainful, that perhaps the worst is yet to come. And yet… you stand here." She drew a breath. "You _all_ stand here tall, noble, with the strength to keep your heads up, live life righteously, and break bread with your fellow man.

"But - my desire to not force my faith on others aside - there are few things nobler than easing another soul's pain. A calming gesture, or a kind word of support – I challenge each and every man and woman here today to better their world by taking on a bit of someone elses' burden, and trusting someone take on a bit of yours. _That_ sharing creates a bond that can never be broken, a tie that binds." She held up her forearms, bound with their crimson ribbons. "We priests have a sayong – "while these cords bind thy wrists, thou shall never waver". You may not be Ilmatari, but Gods know we could use more toes to one another, more kindness, truth, and relief in this world." She held up her loaf of bread, and the congregation followed suit; in masse, they broke the loaves.

"It is done," Morach said in his gruff voice from her left side.

"So shall it be," the priests responded, followed by the faithful in the assembly, and then… the service was over. There was no scripture, and no kneeling, no censers of burning incense and the hymns of chanting priests echoing off of marble walls – people ate their bread, chatted with their neighbors, and went home.

Morach was busy with the rest of the Ilmatari, so Anomen was alone in the back of the temple. He pulled apart his small loaf, thinking about Katara's simple sermon. Gods knew indeed that he could be kinder, a less brooding soul, but it was the 'blessing in disguise' bit that had struck him the most. A 'blessing' indeed – to get a head wound on the beach and forget why he was even in Maztica.

_Why here, though?_ he asked himself. He seemed to recall the answer being clear just a few days ago, and now a three minute lecture by a woman he'd barely even met and a concussion made everything as clear as mud. In his hands, the bread had crumbled from worrying the crusts with his calloused fingers. He sighed, went outside, and scattered it for the birds that _also_ made the Breaking of Bread their tenday ritual.

The sky was darkening and the first stars of evening were coming out; compared to Athkatla, where the skies were darkened by the city's smoke, the celestial sphere above Maztica was breathtaking. Jewel-like stars and Gods knew what else glittered in the sky, casting a friendly light on everything below; they almost seemed to wink at him. He'd long since retreated into his own headspace and thoughts when a softly accented voice asked from behind:

"Copper for your thoughts?"

"My lady?"

"Katara, if you please." The priestess took a step forward out of the shadows that lurked just beyond the lantern light of the doorway, and followed his gaze upwards. "Odd… Somehow, you didn't struck me as a man interested in the stars."

Anomen didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. At his silence, Katara frowned to herself. "What's on your mind, Sir Delryn?"

He dragged his eyes down, away from the night sky and to the Ilmatari. "Anomen," he corrected her. "And it's… difficult to say, exactly."

"Try?"

Something about her phrasing brought to mind another recent conversation he'd had with himself; funny how often that had been happening lately. "For one, I was trying to remember what drew me here, to the New World. For all I keep asking, the answer eludes more and more. And secondly…" he paused, thinking of the best way to say what was on his mind without sounding like a lunatic, "I keep experiencing… a sort of déjà vu. Certain phrases, or tones keep recalling to my mind conversations I've had before yet there's no recollection beyond those shadows. Hm." He sighed. "The former I cannot help. The latter is likely due to the fall at the beach. Head wounds play tricks on their patients, in my experience."

"You were a healer before a soldier?"

"Aye. For some time before the Order and my knighthood, and many years afterwards as well… why do you ask?"

"I… was just thinking how serendipitous it is that the Church of Helm is getting a healer now, instead of another conquerer." She avoided his gaze, having turned her own temporarily to her fraying armbands.

She hadn't sounded passive-aggressive before, at Morach's hut, but she'd certainly crossed that line now. "If your dislike of Helmites needs be expressed that way, then why are we even speaking?" he snapped.

Katara held up her hands in a calming gesture and look at him once more. "I'm sorry… that was ill-phrased of me. Hear me out, please. Why do you think I spoke about blessings in disguise and relieving one another's pain back there?" Anomen looked at her expectantly. "Some 'social engineering' had to be done. You're too far from Helmsport to receive a good reception here without help. You haven't yet seen how the people here view Helmites, and wait until you go to Ulatos or Helmsport. Especially Helmsport."

_The Nemontemi man._ Even though he was dark skinned, Anomen's expression was of chagrin when he recounted the words he'd said to him.

At that, the Ilmatari revised her words. "Perhaps you have seen it after all, after all. Jaereth says you'll be leaving soon and not to meddle, but as leaders, it's our responsibility to keep our guests safe, even if that means keeping you safe from the people we shelter. They're farmers here, but there are warriors but a few miles up the road, and… many of your kind have worked to ensure that the Mazticans are a broken people."

"I…" he had trouble forming coherent words for what he was feeling. Anger? Confusion? A vague sense that he was the last person in on something? "I have no words. I hardly expected either such social manipulation or words to come from one of your ilk."

Katara's grin was slightly sheepish. "I'm Waterdhavian. We're all about social manipulation." A pause, then, "But truly, take my words under consideration, Anomen. Get to know the locals, listen to their words, 'go native', as it were. Too few of the Helmites have bothered to do so, and it shows. There's more here than head wounds and meddling priests."

"I'll take it under advisement." He bowed stiffly, wanting to leave that damned temple, but his manners kept him in check. "Sufferer."

"Watcher." Katara nodded to him, then slipped back into the building, leaving Anomen outside, alone.

* * *

><p>The jungle air was heavy and oppressive, even though it hadn't rained in weeks. The trees held their breath; when the trees are silent, so too are the creatures that live upon and in them. Yamash walked amongst them both fearfully and in awe, afraid to touch their damn bark or disturb any of the colorful bromeliads and orchids he passed. At any moment, his brain reminded him, a jaguar could pounce upon him silently and rip out his throat, or an army of ants could march upon and over him, leaving his stripped bones laying silent on the jungle floor.<p>

The jungle was, for lack of any other description Yamash could think of, dangerous. "That's why those who came before stayed out of it," he said to himself.

_Hush. Look up._

The trees had suddenly given way into a clearing. He turned his gaze skyward, as commanded, and there - shrouded in the mists – loomed a pyramid.

_Climb_, the voice commanded.


	7. Chapter 6

A brief author's note: From here on, I'm going to be merging two narratives – the story of what happened to Anomen in Brin Dhal's company (though by no means an exhaustive recount of BGII! I'm already doing that with Bell!), and the City of Gold. Having thought long and hard about it, the earlier events are necessary for Anomen's progression here, and I think it'd be kind of cool to highlight them side by side. There will still also be the perspectives of other key players in the story – Yamash, for one, and Cato and a secret secret person who will not make an appearance for many more chapters yet. Hopefully, though, this doesn't get too clunky. I guess the joy of is being able to play around with stories like these and getting helpful feedback. Thanks!

* * *

><p><em>He'd had wanted to drink alone that night, so he'd traversed the city until he came to the last place an squire of the Radiant Heart would be seen – the Copper Coronet. It was a den of sin, the kind of place with a tawdry reputation that the young squires joked about, and the elder knights frowned upon. "Brushing your horse the wrong way?" the lads would say. "Polished your armor wrong? Well, finish the job and get thee to the Coronet." <em>

_He'd been curious about the humongous tavern, though, and once he and his father had severed their final ties – and his family's reputation was so tarnished that little could save it – he'd gone to the Slums to investigate. Whatever the place's reputation, they had good brew at a fair price, and few would question who he was; nobles frequently rubbed elbows there with the whores, drunks, and lotus-eaters, and he had a generic enough look to him, out of his armor and tabard, that no one would bat an eye._

_The smoke was high – a big party of dwarves sat at the next table, exchanging and sampling exotic weeds for their pipes – when Anomen caught sight of a small group that had just entered. An adventuring party, no doubt, this one led by a dark-skinned woman with a shaved head. They were a ragged and mismatched bunch, looking half-starved and in poor armor. One of them, a hulking man with facial tattoos, looked about innocently, like he didn't comprehend what was going on around him; a half-elf with fine features surveyed the crowd calmly, unlike the full elf, who - with wide blue eyes – tread carefully, like at any moment, someone would come and snap her in half._

_He was deep into his third pint of ale and toying with the idea of a fourth when the foursome walked by. He was not a particularly nice drunk, nor meek – a legacy of his father's – and unfortunately for them, the group had piqued his interest._

"_Strangers," he called. "Perhaps you have more courage than the worms that frequent this pit of corruption. I am Anomen."_

_Their leader – who was not bald as it turned out, but not far off – affixed him with a highly dubious look in her black eyes. "Are you now?" _

_Bravado gone – he'd expected more of a response from them, somehow – he faltered somewhat. "I… what… what is your name, my lady?"_

"_Child, let us go." The half elf touched her shoulder gently, guiding her towards the bar and away from him. "Leave the drunk to catcall other –"_

"_Brin," she interrupted, taking a step forward towards his table. "My name is Brin." She was a northerner from the sounds of it. Odd, a northerner with such dark skin; she was as swarthy as a Calishite. _

_The juxtaposition of her appearance and accent – or perhaps it was just the alcohol – made him chuckle. "Well met, 'Brin'. Tell me, my lady – is your heart filled with courage, or be it steeped in cowardice?"_

_The woman's expression gave way to a slight, lopsided grin, even while her party members looked confused or impatient. "When there's cause for it, sir knight, I have courage in abundance. Now tell __**me **__something, Anomen – are you drunk?"_

_He'd opened his mouth to ask something else, but realized after a few moments that she was not just responding, but poking a bit of fun at him as well. He cleared his throat. "I must confess that it would neither be prudent for me to ride my steed nor draw my mace at this time." _

_Her grin widened, showing even white teeth. They contrasted nicely against her complexion. "Good answer. Tell you what, then – if you're as tipsy as you seem, we–" she gestured to the ragtag group that followed her, "Can do one of two things. We can scrape up some coppers so you don't have to spend the night on the floor, or one of us can escort you home." 'Brin''s smile faded as she gave him an appraising glance – her eyes rested on the holy symbol laying upon his broad chest. "Home, I would assume, is with the Temple of Helm, unless you're not telling us something…? I doubt that, though as you, Anomen, seem like an honest man. Honest, if inebriated."_

"_Brin Dhal," the half-elf said more forcefully, her pale brown eyebrows knitting together. "We've come here for business, remember, and not charity."_

"_Since when is it illegal to mix the two, Jaheira?" The younger woman shrugged off the half-elf's hand. "Your answer, Sir Watcher?"_

_He managed something akin to a charming smile, all the ale aside – he __**was**__ a handsome lad, after all, and knew it. "While t'would be most unbecoming of me to say no to a lady's offer of walking me home, dear Brin, 'walking' at all at this time would be most difficult. A stay at the inn is, perhaps, more in order."_

_The large, bald man – silent until now – spoke up. "Brin, Boo suggests that Minsc could maybe carry the drunk man to the Temple of Helm?"_

_Brin shook her head. "No… to a room upstairs should be enough, I think. Let's spare him the embarrassment of having to explain to his superiors about his state come morning."_

"_By Silvanus' thorny beard!" The prickly half-elf had clearly had enough of the whole situation. "Why concern yourself with some drunken stranger when there are a million more lurking in the corners, and we've come here for the entirely more important task of raising funds for Imoen?" _

"_**Peace**__, mother bear." Brin closed her eyes out of frustration then reopened them after several seconds. "Minsc. Lend a hand to our newfound 'friend' here. Jaheira, calm yourself. We'll be back soon. Up with you," she directed Anomen, who stood unsteadily while Minsc, ever the gentle giant, lent one of his massively-muscled arms to steady him. He studied the Amnian priest curiously, like he was solving a puzzle._

"_If ale does not sit well with you, little Helmite, Minsc has Rashemi herbs to calm the gut…"_

"_Truly, Minsc, I doubt that'll be necessary." The shorter woman grimaced somewhat at the idea of Minsc acting as apothecary. She glanced between the two men at the bar - one sallow and angular, the other quite rotund - and took a gold piece out of her coinpurse, laying it upon the bar between them. "Whoever's in charge of rooms, we'll need three. I'm sharing with-"_

"_Ah, Missus Jaheira!" the rotund one exclaimed, catching sight of the sour-looking druid._

_Brin blinked. "Yes, her... I'll ask you about that later. Er. One for my large friend, and one for this fellow."_

_The sallow man grinned viciously upon seeing Anomen. "Ale in the slums too much for ye, knightling?" Then, to Brin, "Aye, he's a slummer if ever I saw one – one of the Radiant Heart boys, out for a lark. I'll give him a room, for double."_

"_You've got your gold." Brin's skin was dark, but the flush in her face was still evident despite the finality her words implied. "Keys, please."_

_The larger of the two looked over at Jaheira, who was shaking her head at the whole exchange, and took the money. "I'll deal with the extra," he informed his thinner employer. "She's with an old friend." Although they were short by several silver, he reached underneath the bar and retrieved three keys, nodding to both Brin and – in the distance – his old companion._

"_**Thank**__ you." The shorn-headed woman accepted them graciously, and turned to Anomen and Minsc._

_The Helmite, to his credit, looked thoroughly abashed at the whole exchange, and his expression was chagrined when she handed him his key. "My lady," he slurred, fingers curling around it. "Please know that I did not mean to embroil you in any… intrigues… with my state. Lehtinan is right. I am out of my element and imbibed overmuch."_

_Brin's face was difficult to read. "What your do in your time, Anomen, is your business. Consider me 'stepped out' from this point forward." Her friendly demeanor, present during their initial exchange, had been replaced by something entirely more businesslike. It almost seemed like she was… disappointed? But it didn't matter – after that night, he'd never see her again. She would be just another disappointed face in the parade of disappointment that had been his life thus far. "Minsc, take the gentleman to his room."_

"_Ah, yes… come, come, small Helmite. We'll talk again about those herbs, yes?" _

* * *

><p>"Step aside, man, impor— ah. Brother Morach." The presence that had announced itself outside of the half-orc's hut fell silent upon seeing its owner, tending to his chickens. Steel-haired and exceedingly noble-looking, the newcomer's bearing and expression implied that he had just smelled something very unpleasant. Morach's expression, usually quite mild, darkened slightly.<p>

"Prelate Cato. Always a pleasure," the hut's owner smiled pleasantly, small tusks showing on his lower jaw. The Ilmatari didn't skip a beat. "You're here, I assume, for my patient?"

The Prelate raised an eyebrow at the other man's thinly-veiled sarcasm, though he was too polite to say anything directly. "Indeed. Five days for a head wound seems… excessive, does it not?"

"For a concussion? Yes," Morach conceded, dipping his head deferentially. "But five days for a skull fracture is hardly enough, in my opinion."

"That wasn't mentioned in your correspondence." Cato stiffened, cold hazel eyes boring holes into Morach's face. "You merely stated the far more vague 'head wound'."

"And you, Sir Knight, agreed to send for Sir Delryn when I deemed him ready to travel." Morach, despite the calm manner in which he challenged the Helmite, drew himself up to his full height, which saw him looking down on the older man. "I'm afraid that I'll need to send for one of the Mersks if you're determined on taking him today."

"Aye, do so," the older man growled. "In the meantime, stand aside."

Without asking for permission, the Helmite pushed past Morach into the hut, disturbing the flock of hens that had gathered for their scraps and releasing the smoke from the healing incense the half-orc had set out for his patient. Morach sighed, and set off to find his superiors.

Anomen was awake, and had been for quite some time - his dreams the night before were puzzling. They had the vividness of memory, but while he could recall _some_ of the faces in the dream (Minsc, for example, was unforgettable), the rest was an odd blur of déjà vu. He'd also heard the small verbal scuffle outside, and was sitting up in the hut's bed when the Prelate came to visit, in an attempt at being a gracious host.

"Watcher-Knight Delryn," the steel-haired priest greeted him. Prelate Cato had a deep baritone voice, one which sounded quite heroic. It was the sort of voice Anomen had always imagined a knight to have, one that he lacked. It always had been a source of vague bitterness. Cato bowed when he reached his bedside. "It is… an _honor_ to finally make your acquaintance, Sir."

The bedridden man, despite raising his dark eyebrows in surprise at his deference, managed something of a chuckle. "Sir Prelate. Such formality is unnecessary. I, uh… I have heard all about you, and hardly expected for you to make a personal visit."

"Ah, 'tis more than a visit, Watcher Delryn. I'm your escort back to Helmsport." His demeanor, icy with the Ilmatari outside, had melted somewhat in the presence of the younger man. From behind his black beard a smile crept out. "My peers and I felt that a presence such as yours warranted more pomp and circumstance than sending out mere squires would provide. I hope you'll forgive our indulgence."

Anomen stared at him, puzzled. _Pomp and circumstance…? _"I'm afraid I do not understand, sir."

"My dear knight!" Cato laughed. "Your exploits are well known to us, both in Amn with the Radiant Heart and with the Bhaalspawn. You needn't be coy about your adventures."

"Coyness was not… that is, I had not intended…" the knight lost his words. Something tingled in the back of his mind, like a thought that was trying to surface but was unclear, and the feeling put him ill-at-ease. He tried to sit up more, but Cato patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

"Brother Morach was right to keep you after all, Anomen. I shall have to apologize to him." He looked into the distance for a moment, then nodded at his fellow Watcher, having made up his mind. "No matter. Memories will resurface over time. Now, let's see about getting you out of this blasted Ilmatari backwater and back to civilization, where you can heal properly."

Anomen chucked somewhat darkly, recalling fragments from various campaigns and the adventures he'd been on. "I have seen far worse than this, Prelate, and Brother Morach has done an admirable job."

"I would assume you have, lad!" the elder man laughed, ignoring his second statement. With more strength than Anomen expected, Cato neatly slipped his arm behind the bedridden man and helped guide him off of the straw mattress, supporting him while he stood. "There's a lad, there's strength in you yet. Now where did that blasted half-orc put your clothes…"

* * *

><p>Dressed, blessed, and standing, the two Helmites were met outside of the hut by both Mersks and Morach, who looked quite incensed at the abduction of his patient. Jaereth had his hand on the larger man's arm, preventing him from barging in on the two of them, while Katara frowned, standing aside.<p>

Cato addressed them, taking away the burden of explanation from Anomen. "Jaereth. Katara. Thank you both for harboring Sir Delryn here. We'll be leaving now."

"Prelate." The Ilmatari woman used Cato's title, giving him the respect that he'd left out for them. "Good morning, Sir Anomen. Prelate, I urge you to reconsider what you're doing here."

Delryn looked between the two heads of the churches, and decided he was best off with the polite route. "Sister Katara," he started mildly, hoping to appease her. "It appears, ah, that I am being called to duty earlier than anticipated."

"It does indeed appear that way…" The way she trailed off and her tone gave Anomen pause. Katara and Cato were eyeing one another warily, in a way that implied a silent conversation the rest of them weren't privy to. "You have been madeaware of Sir Delryn's condition, even if Brother Morach left out several details," she continued after an uncomfortable silence between all parties. "As healers, we can't, in good conscience, allow him to travel in this state."

"I am a healer as much as any other priest, and he is one of my men," Cato snapped back, not giving her time to respond. "If there is an issue, I will take responsibility for him. Besides, it's a short journey and we have priests on standby in the event of an emergency."

Both parties finally looked to Anomen, who felt trapped. "To be with Helm _is_ my duty, Brother and Sister Mersk. I appreciate what you have done for me, but if the Prelate insists, I must comply."

"It is within our rights to call for our own clergy," Cato said, a note of finality to his voice.

Jaereth grunted and looked to his wife. Katara looked over to Morach, shook her head, and returned her attention to the two Helmites. "If that is your wish. He is one of yours, after all." Then, to Anomen, "Travel well."

Cato turned and began to walk off, but Anomen held back with the three Ilmatari. "Wait. A moment, if you please, Prelate. I will catch up."

"Do." He continued down the dirt road without Anomen, his business concluded; the younger Helmite turned to Morach and offered him his hand.

"Brother Morach. You have done so much for me, and I doubt I would be so hale – or lucid - were it not for you."

The agitated half-orc softened somewhat at the compliment. He clasped the other man's hand tightly, giving it a firm handshake before releasing his former patient. "It's been pleasant to finally have company to speak to. Travel safely, and mind yourself – I don't think you're fully recovered yet, and even a short journey could be taxing."

Anomen nodded at his advice. "I doubt so either, and will take precautions. You shall have your hut and your bed back, though, so there is a good side to this!" It was a clumsy joke – Anomen was bad at goodbyes even at the best of times, but the half-orc took it in stride and shook his hand once more.

As Morach laughed, Anomen turned to the Mersks. Jaereth he'd barely interacted with outside of his first night, so he offered a polite nod, but Katara had been friendly – he extended his hand to her as well. "Sister. Thank you for your guidance and hospitality."

She did not take his hand. Anomen retracted it, but noticed that she was smiling. "You know, Sir Delryn, you are welcome here."

"Assuming you're allowed back once you step foot in Helmsport," Morach joked darkly.

"It's less unlikely than it might seem," Katara agreed, with a note of somberness to her voice. "Take care. Mind my words and don't forget why you came here."

The Helmite's brows creased slightly. "Are relations between our churches such that a warning like that is warranted?"

There was a long pause, and it was Jaereth who actually broke it, after a shared glance with his wife. "I think perhaps you'd better get back to Prelate Cato," he said quietly, avoiding the question directly. His answer, however, gave Anomen the answer he really needed to know.


End file.
